Literary Fiction
by Lord Malinov

It was a night by the lake, a bit colder than I prefer, so I sat by the campfire, playing old standards and singing when no one else would. The darkness enveloped us, a tiny finite world illuminated by the chaotic, unsteady flicker of flames over hunks of deep shadowed wood. Cold winds infested our precarious warmth with harsh blades of cruel insistence. I huddled my body and pushed my frigid fingers to keep moving lest they freeze.

People left; I don’t know where. I stayed; I don’t know why. It kept me warm and safe, playing my guitar in the dark and the cold with the mesmerizing glow of yellows and orange and black in the pit between us all. I kept playing and whoever remained became invisible as the night deepened.

I played quietly, assuming no one was near and some might be asleep. I wandered the fret board and made light of the corny campfire tunes I had been playing.

A playful lick erupted from me and that was when I saw her. She danced to the music I played, I reckoned, at least it seemed that way. She was dressed too lightly for the frosty autumn night but her dance gave no thought such worldly things. I increased my rhythm, took things a bit higher. She responded as easily as if she’d read my mind.

She stopped finally beside me, when my song reached an inevitable conclusion, though I tried to extend the dance for as long as she would. She laughed at my refusal to hit the last chord.

“Can I suck your cock?” she asked, still laughing.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, strangely polite. I tugged at my jeans, suddenly reminded of the cold.

“Let’s go over there,” she said. “It’s cold.”

We sat down on a bench carved from a fallen tree and I wrestled my cock free from the nest of denim. She knelt on the long bench beside me, leaning over my dick with her smile and began to tongue and suck me. I instinctively reached for her ass and after pushing aside layers and layers of chiffon, I found the moist lines of her cunny and fingered them. We recast the song in our manipulations, my fingers, her tongue, my palm and her lips, danced a new dance in the silent by ever present melody we shared.

I played with her pussy and she suckled my cock until all the energy collected in furious lust and crashed over our shores with the whimper of submission.

Dawn woke me, shivering on the bench, guitar on the ground. She was gone. I hummed in awkward fits until I reached home. I warmed myself by the fire and wrote my new song down.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, fiction, literature, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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